Sense and French Ability (4 page)

The afternoon passed pleasantly in the warmth of the spring sun-shine. The mole was laid beneath the grass in a quiet corner, Melodie scattered flower petals and was satisfied. All four adults chatted contentedly, and peace reigned between Maryl and Jean Christophe.

As the sun slid down the sky, into the woods up the hillside, Pascal and Amélie collected up a drowsy Melodie.

“Time to go.” Pascal looked at his watch.

“She has got Choupinette hasn’t she?” Amélie reassured herself. “She cannot go to bed without him, scruffy as he is.”

Her toy dog was found and Melodie clutched its familiarity in her arms, stroking its fur with her thumb. It was time to leave, and she snuggled into her father’s arms as he lifted her to kiss her aunt and uncle goodbye.

After the guests had left Jean Chri helped Maryl clear away the last of the dishes and cups, feeling more relaxed than he had for quite some time.

“That was a delicious dinner, as always. I am lucky, indeed, to have such an accomplished wife,” he added unaware that he was placating her yet again.

“Hmmph,” was all that she responded.

They were just finishing the tasks when Madame Altier arrived, knocking at the front door. Maryl answered, swinging the heavy door wide. “
Madame
,
bienvenue
,” she said leaning to exchange the customary kisses.

“Maryl,” Madame Altier said after greeting her. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, on a Sunday too. I have a problem with the handle of my bedroom door and I’ve tried to fix it but I am quite unable. I wondered if Jean Christophe might help me.”

“Jean Chri,” called Maryl, indicating that Madame Altier should step into the house.

“Bonsoir,” acknowledged Jean Chri before moving to kiss each cheek of the visitor.

Madame Altier explained that the door handle was faulty on her bedroom. “I’m worried that I shall get stuck in my own room and I’m really struggling with the lack of strength in my joints.” She showed her gnarled hands.

“Of course, I’ll come and look. Just let me get my tools. I’ll come now.”

It was a simple matter and Jean Chri, with his practical aptitude, was able to fix it.

“Will you take a glass?” Madame Altier enquired.

Jean Chri hesitated but then decided that he would. Not that he would give her any ammunition for the gossip that he knew she loved.

“Is your English lady still staying?”

“She’s going the day after tomorrow. She’s gone out for a walk.”

Jean Chri was surprised when he felt a little deflated.

“But I think she may return. I understand she might well consider moving to this area.”

“There may be one or two who have something to say about another English person coming, M. Demille for one. So you have more guests coming quite soon?” He asked to deflect any further conversations about neighbours.

They chatted for a while before Madame Altier dropped her surprise announcement.

“Mind you, the way I’m going I might not be able to stay much longer. My hands are so painful and my sister keeps saying I should go to her. I’m really not sure I want to, though. I was born here. It would be a wrench.”

“I know Madame,” Jean Chri responded, “but there is always someone here to help you out.”

“You are kind.” She leaned and patted his hand as he held his glass. “We shall see, we shall see,” she added, nodding her head. “I don’t like to ask for help all the time and it’s quite tiring, this little business.”

As Jean Chri returned to his own house, he reflected on the fact that life so often featured a dilemma of some kind. Madame Altier was unsure of her ability to cope and whether she should live with her sister; he himself, faced a complicated family situation. What should he be doing for Maryl to make her more content? What of Fliss, the English lady? She seemed to have a dilemma of her own too.

Chapter 4

As Fliss passed the restaurant door on one of her strolls, it opened and the older man with the rolling gait she had seen on her arrival appeared.

“Miss Summers,” he said, extending his hand to shake. The time was going so fast she still had not been here to eat as she had intended.

‘Clearly people have been talking. He knows my name and yet he was not at the lotto evening,’ Fliss thought.

“Please, call me Fliss.”

“And I am Jerome,” said the man. “You may have heard of me from Madame Altier,” he added, pulling a face.

Fliss nodded and smiled. Rumour and stories spread like wildfire in a village.

“How have you settled in?”

“It’s fine so far. I am enjoying my visit.” Fliss smiled back at him.

She saw no sense in taking sides in a petty village argument. She was determined to be even-handed with everyone.

Just as they were chatting, another lady came along the street and waved a greeting to Jerome. It transpired that she, too, was English. With a tall and sturdy figure she was striking. Her complexion was smooth and clear, and she had short hair, light in colour. Her nose was fine and straight, and her generous mouth gave the woman a sensual look. She strode across the road, with the gait of an athlete, to join the greeting. Her eyes belied this. Wide and blue, they darted around as if she was unsure of herself.

Jerome took charge of the situation and introduced the newcomer as Harriet. “Harriet lives on
rue
de
la
Vieille
Curé
along by the river.”

“Yes, it’s right on the river bank; the little white house with the clay stork on the large stump by the door,” she added. “You must be Felicity Summers. I’ve heard about you.” She smiled. “Pleased to meet you,” she added, extending her hand and shaking that of Fliss with no nonsense. They spoke French out of politeness to the old restauranteur who had introduced them.

“Please, call me Fliss.”

“Why don’t you both come in and have a glass of wine,” Jerome said. “
C’est
la
maison
qui
régale
.”

‘On the house,’ Fliss thought. ‘How welcoming.’

Fliss and Harriet looked at each other, smiling an agreement, and in that instant Fliss knew that here she had an ally.

“Thank you,” she said.

As together they entered the restaurant, Fliss looked around her in wonder at the strange antiquated darkness of the place. There was no-one else there at this early afternoon hour. Jerome went behind the massive, oak bar and pressed the old-fashioned cassette recorder button to play quiet music.

“It is for the ambiance,” he explained.

He poured three glasses of wine while Fliss and Harriet took a seat at a small table in the bay window. The only other was long and ran along the centre of the room. Harriet sat, arranging her long tiered and flowered skirt. She had a demeanour that showed she was unsure of her present company although friendly enough. Jerome joined them but did not stay seated for long. He took a cloth from the bar top and went behind to dry some glasses, joining the conversation from his position.

“Have you lived here for long?”

“It will soon be eleven years,” Harriet answered. “Before someone else tells you, my partner died three years ago. We’d been together ever since leaving school but she got cancer.” Fliss picked up the reference straight away but was so sorry to hear the story. Harriet had her sympathy and admiration straight away.

“Moving on,” Harriet said, shrugging her shoulders and turning to the bar. Jerome spoke to another much younger man who entered the room from a door behind the bar.

“This is Éric, my cousin.” Jerome made the introductions.

Éric nodded at the women before, following a nudge from Jerome, he came and kissed Harriet on each cheek and extended his hand to Fliss. Then he moved to the end of the long table and began folding a pile of paper serviettes, awaiting someone’s attention, without a word.

“
Que
fais-tu
?” Jerome asked him. “They don’t go like that, I told you so many times,” he laughed his deep-throated chortle, shaking his head in amusement. “We fold them like this now. Éric,
raffiné
. We must be refined to keep up and keep going.”

He showed his cousin again how to fold the napkins for the tables.

“Jerome likes to think of himself as sophisticated. He worked in the kitchens of a hotel in the small market town fifteen kilometres from the village. He thinks it a much bigger place than this small spot. It was for many years until he opened this restaurant bar of his own.” Harriet leaned forwards and divulged this information in English.

In the scheme of things, in the wider world, Fliss could see that he was not raffiné.

Jerome’s jeans, covering his long legs, hung from his slim hips. In this closer company Fliss could see that his curly grey hair, which she later learned that Éric cut for him every few weeks, needed attention. Jerome’s apron, at this time of day, looked like the same one in which Fliss had seen him when she arrived. It was of him that she had demanded directions on that day. His hands were clean, generally, but his figure was not a positive advert for good home-cooked food, being so skinny. The same shape could not be said of Éric who was almost as round as he was tall.

“I don’t know if that is his natural figure.” Harriet spoke having followed Fliss’ eyes. “There is deep speculation among the locals that it’s the undergarments and jumpers he wears. Even in high summer he often wears a towel around his neck and can often be seen with a woolly hat on in mid-summer. It is to protect him from the sun. So he maintains.”

Fliss smiled.

“There is talk of issues about the relationship of these cousins and their restaurant. To be honest they have both been so kind and helpful to me. It bothers me not one jot what they do. I’d be the last one to judge,” Harriet said with feeling.

“You have to take as you find,” Fliss said.

“Exactly.”

“Éric, fetch the cutlery, please, and we’ll set the table for the Jourdon party,” Jerome said

Éric trundled off to the kitchen and Jerome surveyed his domain. The chill in the air ensured the fire was lit already. The corn cobs for the chickens were drying, hanging by their stalks to one side of the enormous fire-place. Why have a fire and use it only for warmth? Everything had to be multi-purpose if survival was the key.

Jerome’s manner for keeping the fire stoked was unique. It had to be seen to be believed. The table being prepared took up the length of the room. Under it and for most of its length was an enormous tree trunk. This extended into the open hearth and was the basis of the flames, dancing and sparking from it. When Fliss noticed this it was as much as she could do not to exclaim it to Harriet.

“I know,” Harriet said as she followed Fliss’ gaze. “It’s unique but practical, I suppose. Every so often Jerome, still wearing his apron, will bring, from outside, a huge bundle of sticks and twigs wrapped in paper and tied with string known as a ‘
faggot’
. It supplements the log.” She smiled.

As Éric returned with the knives and forks Jerome said, “I’m just going outside to fetch another
faggot
for the fire.” On his return, he frowned to see Éric standing beside the table with the knives and forks still in his hands.

With utmost patience he remarked, “Lay the table now, Éric, for the Jourdon party,” as he threw the bundle onto the fire. The flames roared up the chimney with a whoomph!

“It was unfortunate. Éric did his National Service for France in the year 2000. It involved ten months which he just completed before the need for young men to do this terminated a year later. That’s one year earlier than first planned by the government; so unlucky in that respect. After his return, he was ill. It was a mystery to the rest of the village.” Harriet explained. “They wondered if something had happened or whether he had experienced or seen something terrible during his time in the army. There were all kind of rumours.”

“I’m beginning to understand that this place is rife with rumours and gossip.”

“That is true. I’m sounding as if I’ve fallen into the same trap.”

“It’s helpful for me to know about these people though,” Fliss said.

“OK. Well, Éric went away again for several months. When he returned he was still in a right state, unable to think or do anything for himself. He kept falling asleep with his head on the table. It was odd and caused gossip when Jerome gave him a home; strange since Éric has closer family in the same village. His own father lives just at the other end of the main street. The difference in the ages of the cousins means that Jerome is more like a dad to Éric. They each came from enormous families. Jerome was the oldest of his twelve siblings, and Éric second to youngest in his family, hence the age difference between the two.”

“Put a knife and fork out for each place and then fetch the glasses from under the bar,” reminded Jerome.

Éric shambled around the table as instructed while Jerome watched him with a patient, kindly eye.

“I’m going to lay out the ‘
apéro’
, Éric,” he said. “You finish the table,
oui
?”

There was no response. “Éric, finish the table?” he prompted.

“
Oui
,
oui
,” Éric said as Jerome headed out to the kitchen.

“Harriet, and you too Fliss, come and look at this.” Jerome beckoned them to follow him.

The kitchen was dark and cluttered. There were pans in the sink ready for washing and the huge oven took up half of one wall. On the wooden work top was a pile of plates for the Jourdon party who were due to arrive in half an hour.

Jerome had a peek in the fridge.

“Here, look. What do you think?”

There was an enormous whole salmon that he had cooked and dressed.

“It looks magnificent,” Harriet said and Fliss agreed.

“I need to arrange the finger food
apéritifs
on those large serving plates ready for the family to nibble on while they all arrive,” Jerome explained.

“They need to have a chance to kiss each other and shake hands in greeting. With so many of them it will take time to say hello. Many people in this region kiss four times, twice on each side!” Harriet explained to Fliss, speaking again in French for the benefit of Jerome.

They left the kitchen to finish their drinks and Harriet explained.

“This is a family who frequent Jerome’s restaurant often, so he knows they will not be as critical as some of the others who live around here. One or two have ‘turned the knife’ and are the main reason for Jerome’s current financial problems. He’s told me this. Rumours have been tricky to cope with, although Jerome, himself, is unsure of the main reason. He had to deal with M. Pierron and his plump, greasy wife,” Harriet continued. “They accused him of substituting the lobster they ordered and paid for with shredded crab-stick, for their son’s confirmation celebration. That was mild though, considering what some people are suggesting. Enough of that,” she sighed.

“He has a lot to put up with,” Fliss said.

“Yes, he does and yet he’s so kind and thoughtful to many of us. As you said, you have to take as you find.”

Jerome came through carrying the apéro dishes. Then, he wiped his hands on his apron. The dishes looked the part and he smiled to himself, pleased with what he had created.

Fliss and Harriet gave their thanks and took their leave. At the door, Fliss halted.

“What’s this?” She indicated a piece of card tacked to the back of the door.

“The ducasse,” Harriet said reading the hand-made poster. “Most of the villages have one. It’s the celebration gathering that happens in May; the largest event of the year. Everyone sits for an extravaganza of feasting and fun with games and quite a bit of drinking.” She laughed. “Alain Ducasse was the first chef to own restaurants carrying three Michelin stars in three different cities. He acquired the most stars during his career. The village ducasse is an acknowledgement to this level of expertise, ‘though the event itself is just an excuse for rollicking good fun, if you ask me,” she continued. “For Jerome it must be his major source of income. He’s provided the catering for several years now. If he lost that contract it would mean serious financial problems, I should think, and it might even force the closure of his business. So he hinted.”

“Well, thanks. It’s been great meeting you.” Fliss meant every word.

“You too,” Harriet agreed. “I don’t think I’ve talked so much in one go for ages. ’Til next time, then,” and they parted company.

Jerome checked his oven and looked in to make sure Éric had completed the task to his satisfaction. Then car doors slammed out in the street and the first of the Jourdons opened the heavy oak front door. He came forward to greet him in the time honoured way. It was his place to pour the wine so he gave Éric a little shove and nodding towards the kitchen said “Fetch the rest of the trays for the ‘apéro’.”